Thud Ridge

by Jacksel Markham Broughton

  The rest of the flights had an alternate target and with their bombs all set, they simply went to the other target and got to work. My flight was purposely not assigned to an alternate strike as I had other ideas. As soon as we made the move, I headed for the last spot we had seen Joe. Once in the area, it was no problem to identify the exact position, and I split my Wabash flight again, to cover more area, and set about the job of trying to raise some sign of Tomahawk four. After a few circuits in the area I started to get the action I was looking for. I had been crisscrossing the ridge and the little plateau where I knew he had been on Sunday evening, but I was not sticking solely to that spot as I knew he might have been forced to move even though he could not go very far in that country by himself. I switched to the emergency channel I knew he would be monitoring—if he still had his radio, if the battery was still working and if he still had the freedom to operate the radio as he wished. All three were pretty big ifs by this time but the events of Sunday had left such a bitter taste in all of our mouths that we wanted to exhaust every possibility. As I moved I alternated radio calls with Tomahawk four, Tomahawk four—this is Wabash lead. If you read come up on your beeper,” and the next circuit I would give him, “Joe—this is Wabash lead. If you read me, Joe, come up on emergency channel. Give me a call on emergency, Joe.”

  And up came the beeper. Weak to be sure and with nowhere near the piercing tone that it had belted out a couple of days ago, but it was there. It was so weak that I could not home in on it the way I wanted to and thus could not get a really accurate fix, but it was very close to the same area. “Tomahawk four—Wabash. I read your beeper. If you read me shut your beeper off now.” There was always the possibility that Joe, or whoever had his beeper, had not actually read my earlier transmission but had simply turned it on when he realized that the Thuds overhead were looking, not simply passing by. Of course, if the wrong people have the beeper and you sucker in a little too close you are liable to be met with a blast of ground fire. Even though we all knew this and even though we have lost some machines and people to this ruse, when you pick up the scent that could be one of the guys you acknowledge this possibility and press on regardless.

  The beeper operator responded perfectly and the pitifully weak beep left the air as directed. Well, we were on the trail of something and the mere thought that there was some remote possibility of pulling this thing out of the dismal sack that it was in was exhilarating. I called my element lead and told him to get back to the tankers as fast as he could, pick up a load of juice and come back to relieve me. While he was gone I continued to work the beeper but could not pin it down to a specific ridge or group of bushes. I would start in on it, get my directional indication and then it would fade, just like a weak radio when you are trying to catch the prime line or note of music on your favorite radio program. I couldn’t hack it alone and I quickly decided it would take another full-scale effort, with the help of the rescue specialists, unless I got a big breakthrough soon. Try as we might, neither Ken nor I could get what we wanted out of the beeper, nor could we get any voice contact.

  While we were working our hearts out in a vain attempt to get the specifics I knew so well I would need if I was to persuade my bosses to launch the rescue fleet again, my element was encountering delays on the tanker rendezvous, and this was the first indication that a more exciting afternoon was ahead. I did not want to leave the scene until I had at least the other part of my flight in the area where they could give one more try for something that would be a firmer hat hanger when I tried to sell the case. We played our fuel right down to the minimum and they were not back yet. The time of day indicated that we would not be able to get the show in gear and get back that night, but there was time for the element to work a bit longer. They did not show, as they were hung up on the tanker and I played the fuel to the point that everything would have to work just right on the way back, or Wa-bash one and two were in trouble.

  I had in effect bet heavily on the fact that the ground controllers and the tankers would appreciate the seriousness of the situation, and that they would do their job of getting me where I was supposed to be, and get a tanker up to us in time to avert fuel starvation and the resultant loss of machines and maybe people—like me and my wingman.

  They should already have been aware of what I was doing, and I had all sorts of gear on board my bird to let them know where I was and that I anticipated an emergency situation, and after all, a nice guy’s future was at stake—but it turned out to be not such a good bet. When I could wait no longer, I called the element and brought them up to speed on my results so far. I told them to get back in as soon as they could and repeat my efforts. If they got nothing better than I did they were to hit the tankers again and head for home where we would recap the situation and make our pitch for another rescue attempt. This accomplished, Ken and I reached for all the altitude we could get and I started screaming for ground control to get me with a tanker, quickly.

  As we leveled at maximum altitude, we should have been within voice range of the control people. We called and called but received no answer. I knew we were transmitting OK, as I could hear and talk to other fighters and tankers in the area, but none of us could get the control guys to answer or assist. I turned my internal radio gear to the emergency position which is supposed to knock every ground controller right out of his chair as he sits in his darkened room and surveys the air picture, but to no avail. We desperately needed help and nobody would help. As Ken and I tried not to believe the story our gauges were telling us, we both knew that it was most doubtful that we would be able to get ground control direction to a tanker in time. We didn’t know why they wouldn’t answer, but we knew time was eating fuel and things looked grim as Ken punched the mike button and passed that simple phrase that means more to a fighter pilot than all the fancy emergency calls: “Boss, I’m hurting.”

  One of our tanker friends was listening and was trying as hard as we were to rock someone off his seat and get some steers going. He advised us that he was blasting away with both of his big radios on all channels and, like us, could get nothing. We started to try a freelance rendezvous and hookup with him using his internal gear and ours, but it became immediately apparent that we were just too far apart and that there was not enough fuel left to get us together.

  Then someone awoke to that lonely cry of emergency to the north and the radio spoke to us, “Aircraft on emergency, what’s your problem?” I spit out my answer as tersely as I could but I obviously did not have the regular crew chief, as I got the most frustrating of answers, “Stand by.”

  I couldn’t stand by and barked back, “Listen, I can’t stand by, I have two Thuds at minimum emergency fuel and I have got to get to a tanker right now. Give me a steer to the nearest tanker, quickly, or we are both going to flame out.”

  As I looked over the side at the rough green carpet below I subconsciously remembered that this was the area where the little people skin captives alive. Some of the more vivid horror stories I had heard made a fast lap around my head, only to be jarred out of position by my friendly controller’s reply to my desperate plea, “Emergency aircraft—this is control. I am having trouble hearing you and don’t quite understand your problem. Proceed further south and give me a call later and I will set up a tanker for you.”

  Balls, better that clod should have been looking down at these headhunters than me. I hoped he fell out of his swivel chair and bumped his little head on his scope. The tankers screamed at him and Ken and I both screamed at him and he wouldn’t come back up on the air. But someone in that center must have heard and understood, because within about thirty seconds a new voice came booming through loud and clear from the center, but unfortunately as he shoved Clodley out of the way and took over the scope, he must have alerted all other control agencies within a zillion miles that he had two birds about to flame out, because all at once we had more help than we could use. They all wanted to help now, and they all wanted to do it at onc
e. Within sixty seconds we had calls from every ground operator who could get a hand on a mike and who could make his mouth work. They each wanted us to cycle the emergency equipment, they each wanted an identifying turn or a dogleg, and they each wanted a detailed explanation of the problem. It was tough to get a word in edgewise but Ken finally managed to get through with “Boss, I’m down to five hundred pounds.” I had seven hundred and either quantity is about enough to take a Thud around the block, and that’s all.

  The next two minutes were critical and it was clear that the controllers were out of control. I held the mike button down for a few seconds hoping to cut a few people out and announced, “OK, all control agencies shut up and listen. This is Wabash lead. I’ve only got a couple of minutes of fuel left and I must have a tanker. Now, whichever one of you has good contact with me and has me identified for sure, take control of me. Sit back and take a deep breath and go to work. You’ve got to do it right and if you don’t I’m going to park these two birds in the jungle, and so help me if I do, 111 walk back and kill you. The rest of you get off the air.”

  One kind soul accepted the challenge and tried to get with the program, but he was; unsure of himself and his resources and he was stumbling. When Ken came through with “Two hundred pounds, boss,” I figured we had about had the stroke.

  Then out of nowhere came the clear voice of White tanker. “Wabash—this is White. I think I have a beacon on you. I’ve passed all the gas I am authorized to for the day, and I just have enough to get back to home base, but if you are hurting as badly as I think you are I’m willing to give it a try. Have to land at an intermediate base and get my wrist slapped. Deviation from plans, you know.”

  At last. Someone who sounded like he knew what was going on. “Rog, White—Wabash here. You call the shots but make it quick.”

  “OK, Wabash, turn to zero nine zero and drop down to twenty-four thousand. I should be about forty miles back on the inside of your turn. OK, Wabash, roll out, roll out. Steady on. Now look at eight o’clock. Eight a little low.”

  “OK, Ken, we’re going past him. There he is about seven to you. A little low.”

  “I got him and I’m showing zero on the fuel.”

  “I’ve still got two hundred pounds. Go get him. Pull your nose up and roll back to your left. You’ll fall right down on top of him.”

  As Ken rolled up over his left shoulder and let the big nose fall through, there that big fat beauty was, and Ken’s engine started chugging as the pumps reached for the last drops of fuel.

  “White—Wabash two. Got you in sight and I’m naming out now. Toboggan. Go down. Go down. I’m flamed out. Hold two fifty and go down. Come on fellows—give me a chance—toboggan.”

  “White, he’s flamed out, STUFF THAT NOSE DOWN. He’s got to coast up to you. Don’t miss, boomer.”

  As the big load with the lifesaving fuel pushed over into a dive, the now silent Thud coasted into position behind him and Ken almost sighed as he said, “Come get me boomer.” And the sarge in the back end of the tanker lay on his belly, took hold of the controls of his flying refueling boom, aimed one time and rammed the boom into the Thud’s nose. As the hydraulic locks bit into the receptacle, Ken was hooked up and being towed along for the ride. As the fuel poured into his tanks and the engine restarted, I was delicately charging into position on his wing as my fuel needle bounced on and off the empty mark. As his tanks registered a thousand pounds he disengaged and slid to the side while I moved into the slot, and before I chugged to silence the same expert gentleman stuck me and the fuel flowed. After I filled up, Ken came back on the boom and filled up and we left for home.

  “Nice save, White. Where are you going to land?”

  “I’ll have to go into your place.”

  “Good, we’ll see you on the ground. Beautiful crew, and that boomer is absolutely gorgeous.”

  “Glad we could help. See you later.”

  All the way home I didn’t even talk to the various control guys whose areas we passed through. They were all very efficient now that we didn’t need them, and it was not because I was pouting that I didn’t talk. I just didn’t trust myself to speak to them at the moment, as I am sure that I would have hurt someone’s feelings. My next task was to get on the phone to my big bosses, which I did as soon as I got on the ground and again thanked White Tanker for his save.

  One of Ken’s additional duties, for he was a wing staff weenie, was running our Standardization and Evaluation program. Even in war we got inspected by inspection teams of as many as forty-five men from each of our headquarters, as often as four times a year. They stayed in Bangkok and commuted to the jungle daily in our gooney bird. It was an almost unbelievable farce, but they got combat pay for it. Among the other things we had to do to satisfy the inspectors was to document each pilot’s proficiency at least once each six months, and our Stan-Eval guys had to complete and file a two-page report, with lots of signatures on it, documenting their flight checks on each of our pilots. I figured that if we had to play this silly game, then each time a Stan-Eval guy flew in a flight of four to Hanoi, the other flight members who made it back safely had demonstrated “proficiency,” and they were automatically credited with a flight check, and another absurd square was filled on another absurd chart. A few days after we landed from this particular flight, Ken stopped by the office and advised, “Boss, you were due for a headquarters proficiency flight check,” and handed me my report card. It said, “Colonel Broughton was given a proficiency evaluation while flying as Force, Commander on a combat strike mission. His demonstrated ability to command and control an entire strike force is outstanding. He was able to cope with several critical and unforeseen problems with cool and decisive action. Flight was debriefed.” We almost laughed ourselves sick.

  It takes a lot of manevivering of forces and some significant changes in plans to mount a sizable rescue effort such as we would need to try what I wanted to try. I thus had to convince those further up the line that we could be relatively sure of gaining something from the effort. If you launch for this purpose, you have to give up some more routine mission that you are scheduled for and this often causes raised eyebrows in some quarters. I guess they knew I felt quite strongly about this one and since we had verified the fact that there were signals coming from the area, and since we knew that Joe had been on the ground and in good shape, I got the OK for the next day. We provided the fighter cover and configured for that specific mission. The rescue people came up with the Spads and the choppers and we prebriefed to rendezvous crossing the border. We staggered our fighters so we could have good cover through both the search and the rescue, should that come to pass. It didn’t come to pass. The Spads looked and got nothing. No noise and nothing visual. We escorted them back out through the quiet countryside where nothing moved, and nobody even fired a round that we saw. That was officially the end of the attempt. We had done all we could.

  The next day, leading a flight, Ken was able to swing back over the area again. He repeated our previous pattern and bigger than hell the beeper came up on command. He called for voice contact expecting the same void that we had received two days before, but this time the beeper talked to him on the emergency channel. Only problem was that it was talking in an Oriental voice. It was not until then, on that Thursday afternoon, that the mission we had started on Sunday was finally all through.

  10. The Easy Packs

  When your daily job is to attack difficult targets in the Hanoi area, you sometimes take your alternate targets too lightly. Nobody can outguess the weather, especially in a place like North Vietnam where you may well get only a few really good days all year, so on each mission you have to plan to go any one of several ways. That’s the reason for all the complicated mission planning I mentioned earlier. When you bank on going for the big one and at the last minute find yourself diverted to one of the easy Packs down in the southern part of North Vietnam, the emotions are bound to be varied. (A Pack, remember, is short for what
the Air Force calls a Route Package.) Some feel mostly frustration that the prime job will not be done that day. Some feel a degree of fatality: nothing to be done about it and some of these kids will live longer because of it. The ones I worried about were those who had never learned, or who had forgotten, the bitter lesson that anyplace where they may shoot at you can be a source of dire trouble. It is a great temptation to ignore some of the rules you live by in an intense area when you are called upon to work in one that is not as intense but nevertheless hostile. There is nothing sadder than to lose a Thud and a pilot on an easy target, but it can and does happen for several reasons.

  If the weather is bad enough to cancel the primary target, it is likely to be less than rosy in the rest of the country—not always, but quite often. Two particular weather bugaboos over there are far worse than they are anyplace else in the world that I have flown, and I’ve flown most places. The first is the thunderstorms, or even bumpy cumulus clouds that are in effect very junior thunderstorms. The big ones go up like nothing you can imagine, and when a good-sized cloud system sets into an area, you can expect It to be there for days. The clouds run from right on the deck to well about 50,000 feet, and as they grow, they roam back and forth and bump into each other, causing more thunder-bumpers and confusion. There is no going under, over or around a big batch of them, and if they are stretched across your path, you most often just have to grit your teeth, hang on as best you can and press for the other side. Any thunderstorm is a -rough ride, but these are rougher. The monsters and the cumulus type are alike as far as visibility is concerned—unbelievably bad.